


amidst salt and smoke

by halfofmysoul



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: A lot of that too, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, First Time, Fluff, Jon Snow is Not a Targaryen, Kissing, Much dragon petting, Sansa is a disaster gay, Smut, opposite of slow burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-05-31 13:38:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19427065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfofmysoul/pseuds/halfofmysoul
Summary: Daenerys’ smile is just the right kind of bittersweet, she knocks Sansa’s shoulder. “I believe this to be the first time we’ve agreed on something.”Sansa bites her cheek, feels them swell red. “Well, if you are to be my queen… I suppose we should at least be friends first.”She watches the Queen exhale, quiet, before her lips part in a smile. Genuine, skin by her eyes creased. “I would like that very much.”Honestly, Sansa answers, “Me too.”And perhaps more.





	amidst salt and smoke

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO! 
> 
> Firstly, this fic obviously only follows the very bare foundation of season eight. Except its gay and, like, not misogynistic. I altered a lot and I don't regret it lmfao. These women deserved to be wives and I'll forever be bitter about it.
> 
> THANK YOU to Taylor for commissioning me months ago and being patient while the fic took on a mind of its own. This is for you! 
> 
> Lastly, obviously I own none of these characters. Please don't sue me.

Daenerys Targaryen, Sansa realised, posed a problem.

She didn’t like nor trust her upon receiving a raven that Jon had bent the knee to a Southron usurper, just weeks after promising he would not. Nor when she received another that she was sailing to the North.

Jon’s willingness to give up the North without consulting a lord infuriated her. Or, if she was being truthful, though it angered her so, she was more upset he had not spoken to her first. When he rose again, when he had held her tender and promised to never let his confidence in her be weakened, she had believed it. Of which, that made her a fool.

Such a big decision, one detrimental to the North, and he had made it so easily. Without her. The pack survives, she muttered to herself upon seeing the Unsullied cross the horizon, but they may stray all the same.

She certainly did not trust the Targaryen upon her arrival to Winterfell, no matter how many pleasantries she threw Sansa’s way with her too-contrived smile and stoic voice. She toured the courtyard with thinly-veiled disinterest like the North mattered little to her. That this place, her people, were merely a blemish she must squash like her ancestors before her.

Watching her parade around had Sansa’s jaw set so hard her teeth ached, wrapped up in silks and a coat that kept little warmth, in spite of the snow that whipped around them. The entitlement was clear on her face.

It was plenty justified. Or so she had told herself.

Jon had been foolish, she had thought for days after their arrival, happy to give the North’s independence away to a stranger because she held a large army and power that the North admittedly needed. As long as he helped her defeat the dead and Cersei, she would grant their independence when she claimed the throne, Daenerys reiterated. Or, rather, stole it. And, of course, he thought not with logic but with impulse. It infuriated Sansa that he had been so clueless.

He’d learnt nothing, it seemed, from the blade that struck his heart.

Sansa had been certain that Daenerys would be more of the same wicked cunning that had taken her captive in the south. Made of the same perfected cruelty that the Lannisters were sculpted by. Those first few days, Daenerys’ head high and her pretty face stoic with arrogance, she knew she’d been correct in assuming this of the dragon queen.

Winterfell is yours, your grace, she’d said, echoing her father’s words to Robert all those years ago. Not meaning a word of it, of course, almost hoping for the queen to react and prove herself the foolish tyrant she was. It’d caught Sansa off guard when Daenerys’ relaxed at the statement, false courtesy aside. She thought back to it for many hours, many of which in the council meetings that Daenerys was the head of. Something in her eyes had softened, her sweetness a little less superficial as she bit into a smile, and Sansa’s stomach dipped.

See, very soon after Daenerys’ arrival, she realised that her problem was not that she disliked her. It was that she didn’t.

She wasn’t blind. Daenerys is made of incredible beauty, fire made flesh and kissed so gently by ice. She’s born for this, Sansa knew, regality so natural in a way that Sansa had yearned as a girl to achieve. It’d be so easy for her to hate her. If only she had been more of the same cruelty her father had been slain for.

No, she does nothing but prove Sansa’s worries wrong.

Daenerys blends in at Winterfell fast, mingling with sheep and wolf alike. She adapts quickly to her surroundings and the harshness of the North, taking it in stride no matter how much it must exhaust her so. She faces council meeting after council meeting with grace, meets with the common people and their needs with equal enthusiasm. She’s impulsive, tells the lords exactly what she thinks when they are dismissive of her, of her house, and commands the room with one press of her lips.

She was ruthless, yes, as all rulers must be. Unforgiving at times, too, as the whispers claimed, but kind. She was reminiscent of Robb’s bravery, Arya’s cunning and her lady mother’s strength. And more. She was porcelain fortified in iron. Fire made flesh if fire could be so gentle, and yet burn so intense all the same.

And so she began to fall quicker, accepting the way her body responded to the queen. She paid much more attention to her in meetings and caught her after to talk through anything she could think of. Asked her about Meereen and Essos’ perfumes, sights, their food. And Daenerys would smile, wooden at first, and ask her of the North. And Sansa would think of her when she slid a hand between her legs at night, with only the stars to judge her.

She bore witness to Daenerys comforting a girl after a difficult meeting one morning. They’d received word that the Karstarks and another two houses refused to fight in the long war and Jon had taken to it personally, Daenerys had worried at her cheek, saying nothing as she smiled at Sansa and promised they wouldn’t need them. It wasn’t true, each of them knew they needed every man living, but it had eased the lump in her throat.

She looked back to the girl in the courtyard. The chill clearly biting at her flesh, she clutched her tattered cloaks to her tiny frame, and it made Sansa’s eyes fill with empathy. She watched from the balcony, the very same that Baelish had spewed poison into her ear at just months earlier, as Daenerys knelt. She wiped the child’s cheek with one finger and had taken her hand in hers. She sat with the girl for quite some time before taking her hand in hers and leaving Sansa’s view. Presumably to the kitchens, given that when the girl had emerged, alone this time, she bore a pouch full to the brim and furs that went to the floor.

It’d made Sansa’s heart soar.

Daenerys had no idea that she was being watched. She had noticed someone in need of help and provided exactly that. As a true queen should.

She knew for sure, then, that she would follow her after the war was won.

“My Queen,” She calls, watches Daenerys’ brows furrow until she spots Sansa. She gives a curt nod and to Sansa’s surprise, she finds herself smiling. “That was awfully kind of you.”

Daenerys takes her time climbing the steps up to meet her and Sansa watches the sun dance across her face. The violet of her eyes catches alight within and they seem to glow golden.

She clasps red, silk hands together and watches the courtyard by Sansa’s side. “I know poverty, starvation. My brother was too proud to ask for help, no longer will my people experience what I had to.”

She sees the hurt swim in her eyes, looking and not seeing as she no doubt thinks back to being raised under him.

“I want that, too, peace.”

Daenerys’ smile is just the right kind of bittersweet, she knocks Sansa’s shoulder. “I believe this to be the first time we’ve agreed on something.”

Sansa bites her cheek, feels them swell red. “Well, if you are to be my queen… I suppose we should at least be friends first.”

She watches the Queen exhale, quiet, before her lips part in a smile. Genuine, skin by her eyes creased. “I would like that very much.”

Honestly, Sansa answers, “Me too.”

And perhaps more.

* * *

They discover the news that Eastwatch has fallen not a week after.

Sansa had woken to the winter winds in full force, howling clear outside of the comfort of her bundle of furs. She pouted at the snow lining her window, willing it to disappear and allow her another moment of sleep. Just as she had, a guard called for her to go to the Great Hall upon Jon’s urgent request. She sighed, pulled her hair back into something she hoped resembled a braid and hurried into her warmest gown and her thickest pelt.

Dread settles in her chest when she catches sight of Daenerys wringing her hands together in the dark hall, loitering by the closed doors alone save for an Unsullied. If Jon were not allowing Daenerys in until everyone arrived, this was almost definitely serious. She met Sansa’s gaze, lilac eyes glazed over with sleep.

Daenerys waves the guard away with pleasantries and greets her with a brisk, one-armed hug.

“I was requested to wait upon your arrival, Lady Stark,” She hides a yawn, silver hair free of braids and bells. She was beautiful, even in such lighting, her head high despite the way she worried at her lip. “I admit that I’m apprehensive. Being alone here with nothing but my thoughts hasn’t helped.”

Sansa blinked, thought of Jon’s account of the dead. Hardhome. The number of wights that Daenerys had described seeing just weeks ago. She looked back to Daenerys’ subtle fidgeting; toying with her ring, dancing her fingers together.

She really was nervous, not putting it on for show. If Sansa hadn’t been watching so intently, she wouldn’t have noticed. Sansa wanted to hold her hand in her own.

“Well, there are only a couple kingdoms that currently want both of our heads, hundreds of thousands of wights and Cersei. I wonder if perhaps one has sent us a strongly-worded letter.”

“Perhaps,” A smile graced Daenerys’ features as she chuckled, full lips lifted in the corner. It amplified her beauty. Sansa felt her cheeks flame, and had to look away.

Daenerys went back to toying with the ring on her finger, and Sansa couldn’t help but be drawn to the action. She knew just the right material and envisioned a gown that would match the jewellery, and itched to tell Daenerys as much.

She remained silent, smiling again out of courtesy when Daenerys caught her gaze.

Daenerys moved to lean back against the wall, gasping when her bare skin made contact with the heated stone. She jolted forward, eyes wide. “What - I was not expecting-”

Sansa can’t help the childish snort that escapes, and she watches Daenerys’ shock at the heated surface morph into amusement at Sansa’s reaction.

“Winterfell sits upon hot springs, your Grace. The heat runs through all of the castle.”

“Oh.” Daenerys leant back, much slower and more hesitant this time, gasping in pleasure when the heated stone makes contact through her garment. Her eyes flutter shut as she sighs and Sansa does not know how to process that.

She rubs at her bare arms, little smile warming Sansa more than the heat ever could. “It’s so pleasant.”

Her gown was thin, at least by Northern standards, and was clearly meant for a much warmer climate than the opposing breach of Winter. Sansa moved to stand beside her, touching her palm to Daenerys’ arm and finding it hot where it should be nothing short of frozen.

Daenerys looks up and her cheeks tinge pink, brows drawn together. “I rushed to dress, I had no time to put half of the wildlife across my shoulders.”

“Here, your Grace,” She says, laugh bubbling as she moved to lay it over Daenerys’ shoulders, drowning her frame. “I imagine it has been difficult adapting to our climate for you.”

“It has. But I’ll deal with it.” Daenerys looks up through her lashes as Sansa adjusts the garment, searching Sansa’s face. It makes her cheeks run hot. Then, she smiles, pretty, full lips the widest since she’d arrived in Winterfell. “You know, Daenerys is quite alright, Sansa. There’s little need for formalities where nobody can hear.”

Sansa inhaled deep, tying the garment across the Queen's torso. Her eyes flicked back to Daenerys’ when she brushes her exposed throat, mumbling her apologies. A light breath escapes Daenerys’ parted lips, eyes fluttering, though she quickly recovers and nods her appreciation up at Sansa.

“Thank you.”

Sansa bows her head. “You’re welcome, your Grace.”

Daenerys’ laugh is gentle when she takes Sansa’s hand in her own, her grip delicate.

“Daenerys.”

Sansa chewed at her lip and willed her heart to calm itself. Daenerys, it was.

“Of course.”

She leant against the wall beside her to steady herself, focus on the matter at hand that was going to be presented toward them and not the tingling of her skin. She sighed as warmth danced up her body despite the chill in the air.

“How long have you been waiting?”

Daenerys watches the lantern opposite them flicker, the only source of light in the otherwise derelict area. The flames dance something beautiful in the lilac of her eyes, and she’s certain Daenerys knows she can’t stop staring if her growing smirk is anything to go by.

She turns to face Sansa, leaning her weight on the cobbled wall. “Quite some time… Tyrion came to me upon first light. I assume he and Jon had been having one of their catch ups, again, when they learned of the news. He insisted that it was important. And then they made me wait out here alone, naturally.”

Sansa chuckled, leaning in closer to fake whisper. “Maybe he’s conspiring with Jon as to how they can make the announcement sound as dire as possible. Throw in a few metaphors, perhaps.”

Daenerys looks up at her in a way she can’t decipher, something foreign and intense before it's blinked away.

“We will see. Hopefully sooner rather than later.”

It’s so quiet, serene, that Sansa goes stock-still when a cry of a bolt being drawn open disrupts it. She supposes Jon is ready for them, and it terrifies her more with each step forward.

Tyrion greets them when the door has been drawn open, face stoic and unreadable. “Your Grace, my lady.”

“Good morning,” Daenerys nodded, and Sansa repeated the greeting.

She was immediately drawn to where Jon sat, staring down at his gloved hands. Beside him was Tormund, his face an angry red and expression passive. As though he were barely present. Newly healing scars ran jagged along his cheek, his throat and past his collar. The flesh was raised and ugly, and Sansa couldn’t look away no matter how much the sight repulsed her.

Burns, Sansa realised. They were burns.

Jon clears his throat, and Sansa is suddenly aware of the lack of lords or noblemen present. Half a dozen people were seated, including an apprehensive Varys and Arya.

Daenerys’ lips pressed together, her expression but a cold, blank slate.

“What is it?”

Jon’s eyes cast downward for a second before he looked directly to Daenerys. “Tormund has informed me that Eastwatch has fallen. As has Last Hearth. Many of his men and the Watch alike died, and the army of the dead continue South. Lord Ned Umber was dead when they arrived.”

Fear struck Sansa, something ugly and alien taking hold and making her blood run cold.

“How..” She enquired, speaking up with a shake to her voice in spite of her effort to appear collected, “How is that even possible?”

“It shouldn’t be,” Jon’s gaze shifts from his sister to Daenerys again. “Your Grace, there is more.”

Daenerys swallows. Her gaze has not strayed from Tormund’s scars. Sansa’s heart thumped in her chest as she watched her fight to keep her face neutral.

“Please,” Daenerys’ nostrils flare, “Be out with it.”

Jon’s mouth snaps shut, and he stares down at the oak table in front of him. He traces the worn surface with shaking fingertips. Daenerys toys with her ring beside Sansa, head held high.

She looks nothing short of terrified.

Sansa is taken by surprise when Tormund speaks up, harrowing in the silent room.

“It spat... blue flames, quick as anything. Flew faster than anything I’ve seen. It was terrifying, the way it screamed, how it howled...”

Daenerys inhales deep as he continues to recount what happened. She struggles with keeping her composure, this perfect, impartial mask quickly splitting at the seams. Her lilac eyes glisten. Heavy tears threaten to spill down pale cheeks as her lips pull back, teeth bared. Like a beast ready to snap.

A dragon’s temper, maester Luwin had warned her as a child, was hard to dampen. She saw it now.

Still, Sansa wanted to wipe her tears with her thumb. She wanted to will away the evil that had wronged her, as though fate was holding her in its grip and squeezing.

Not unlike Sansa herself.

Her dragons, while they were creatures of incredible power, were her children, as much as Sansa struggled to comprehend it. They were easily capable of bringing cities to ash like their ancestors, but they weren’t brought into the world to be pawns in this game of evils. No, they were brought to life by Daenerys’ fury, her loss, her strength. Reborn, just as she had been. At least, that was what whispers had granted her in King’s Landing.

She thought of Lady, her whimpers that had filtered through her window until one, final yelp she wasn’t supposed to hear. Caught up in a war that she should’ve played no cards in.

Fate was cruel, incredibly so. Sansa had learnt this a great while ago, and while it had gotten her to where she sat today, she regretted every second from the moment she got in the carriage to leave for King’s Landing that day.

Daenerys’ hands shook as she grasps Sansa’s furs tighter around herself, grief wracking her frame, and Sansa felt tears well in her own eyes. She wasn’t sure if they were more at the horrors of her past, or at Daenerys’ present.

Before she knew what she was doing, she was taking hold of Daenerys’ hand. She ran her thumb along the back, finding it hot to the touch, and hoped it would stem at least the smallest amount of her open pain.

Daenerys’ gaze snapped to her, eyes wet and wide. She curled her fingers tight around Sansa’s with a deep exhale, and Sansa watched as strength reignited itself within her.

Daenerys turned to face Jon, her hand still in Sansa’s. She faced him with fire in her eyes though her lips still quivered.

“You’re saying that this... Night King... has my child, yes?” At this, Tormund swallowed and nodded. In alternate circumstances, the large Wildling being so visibly intimidated by a woman two-thirds of his height would amuse Sansa greatly. “But I still have two more dragons than him, both very capable of burning him alive.”

It came out as a snarl, and Sansa could feel the woman shake. With anger, with vengeance or with grief, she did not know.

Lips curled back, she continued, “Let him come. Let him try. And I will turn him to ash and bone myself.”

With that, she left the room, chin turned up in spite of the moisture spilling down her cheeks.

The room remained silent for some time, nobody was sure of what to say, restlessness settling in the air. Sansa sat beside her sister and ran a hand over her face. It was still warm, almost abnormally so. Arya rubbed her arm as she looked ahead.

She knew Arya was thinking of Nymeria, too. She lay her head on her sister’s shoulder and felt tears well in the corners of her eyes.

Sansa followed her gaze to Jon comforting Tormund, his arms around the bearded man as he shook. The meeting was clearly forgotten.

He looked over the Wildlings’ shoulder to his sister with tired eyes. “We meet tomorrow, with fresh eyes, at first light. The last shipment of dragonglass is expected in a day.”

* * *

It doesn’t take Sansa much time at all to find her.

She follows the call of the dragons, their gentle cries that travel the air. She journeys outside of Winterfell’s gates, away from the hustle of everyone preparing for the war that fast approaches and across a harshened, white ground.

The snows stick to the bottom of her furs, up to her ankles. She minds little, it is refreshing after years of the Southern sun beating down on her.

She spots the green beast first, scales tipped gold. The black one lay behind it, curled up like a hound, tail twitching as it watched her. Sansa stands her ground, meets its gaze, and it seems to settle.

She only realises Daenerys is there when she spots platinum hair whipped around by harsh winds. It’s then she catches a gentle, if slightly hoarse, voice singing a foreign lullaby. She has to strain to hear it over the howls of winter, but she manages.

It's an Essos lullaby, she realises. Meereenese.

The green let out a soft growl, almost a purr, and it reminds her of the alley cats that she would turn her nose up at as a girl. The black one rests his head beside Daenerys’ crossed legs, finally giving Sansa view of her. He buts at her hand as she gives up the song to laugh, to coo at him. She strokes the side of his head, rests her cheek atop his snout for a moment.

The black one lets out a similar rumble, and Daenerys’ answering smile is one reflecting quiet sorrow.

There’s something incredibly sombre about such a sweet sight, and Sansa’s chest clenches for her. It’s incredible, these creatures of great mass and destruction, curled up beside their mother in a time of despair.

She’d heard once that dragons and their riders are sometimes so intertwined that one felt the other’s emotion at times. She could see it, now. They mourned for their brother and hurt because their mother did.

Sansa had only ever mourned alone.

“They’re beautiful,” She says by way of greeting, and Daenerys doesn’t lift her head, merely opens her eyes to peer up at Sansa. “Do they mind if I sit here?”

Daenerys continues to watch, her pretty face blotched in sadness and her eyes dull. She notes that the furs around her shoulders appear wet. “Not at all.”

Sansa nods, eyeing up the beasts as she lowers herself as slow as possible. Daenerys snorts at this, a hint of a smile gracing her features.

“If they did not like you, you would know all too well. Don’t worry.” She pets the considerably larger dragon. Drogon, she remembers, the one Daenerys was famed to ride. He tilts his head, chirping in a way she had not thought possible of such an animal. “They trust you because I do.”

Sansa isn’t sure how to respond, and the green blinks slowly at her. She pulls off her glove, moving her bare hand out toward him and ignores how she shakes. He dips his head, pressing his nose into her palm. The scales are hot to touch and she moves to pull her hand back as fear climbed it's way up her spine.

Daenerys smiles and takes her hand. She runs a thumb over it, not unlike Sansa earlier that day and holds it to his face. “Don’t be afraid, Sansa. They won’t hurt you.”

Sansa wills her heart to calm, focuses on Daenerys’ face when they stroke over his scales. That helps little. Daenerys watches her, not the dragon, her eyes lingering on Sansa’s mouth with the same intensity as earlier. Sansa looks away first to the green before her, something of great beauty that should not exist and yet is here all the same. Not unlike his mother, she thinks.

Daenerys’ hands are soft atop the back of her own, and she finds the dragon’s skin is less rough than imagined. Like smoothed-down marble. Heat coursing through something that should not exist before her. It's overwhelming, the thrill it brings her. Daenerys, so close to her still, chuckles softly at Sansa’s gasp.

Close enough to her ear that Sansa feels her breath on her skin, Daenerys speaks softly, “I think Rhaegal likes you.”

She releases her hand once Sansa gains confidence, watching her pet Rhaegal of her own accord now. Though, she doesn’t move from Sansa’s side.

“Thank you for comforting me when-” Daenerys cuts herself off, and Sansa hears the sharp intake of breath. “Just… thank you. You’ve shown me great kindness, Sansa. A kindness that I’m not certain I’m deserving of.”

“I didn’t do much of anything, your Grace. I’m sure-”

“Must you think so lowly of yourself?” Daenerys’ brows curl together, and the intensity of her gaze makes Sansa’s skin prickle.

Sansa fights the urge to apologise, knowing that she has no reason to. She ducks her head instead, willing the betraying tingle low in her stomach to disappear.

“Forgive me, it has been a trying few days.” Daenerys sighs, and the bigger dragon whines, nudging at his mother. “Months, actually. I was not prepared for any of this. I feel I haven’t truly rested in years.”

Sansa’s smile just about meets her tired eyes, knowing exactly what that feels like. They’ve both experienced more than any person should. Though, survived would be a much more apt term to use. And yet, they are both standing while their enemies lay beneath the dirt. Some at their own hands.

Sansa feels the need to bring alleviation to the conversation. “The world has been unkind to us both. And yet, the dead and the crown wait for no one.”

Sansa feels a chill as she mentions it, running her finger along a rigid scale. She lets the topic die on her lips and instead chooses to hum a song of her own. A Northern one, one of the few the Septa had forced to memorise alongside Southern tongue that she wishes she’d never learnt.

Daenerys, to her surprise, begins to sing too. She sounds beautiful, of course, and Sansa can’t help but smile around the words. Daenerys grins, uncaring when she fumbles over a couple of phrases that she’s unfamiliar with.

As they sing, the danger that comes for them is forgotten and Sansa feels fire creep it's way up her veins and to her chest. Whatever this is, it's something Sansa had given up believing to be possible. Not after everything. Something a little like all the stories she’d held onto as a girl.

“You have a beautiful voice,” Daenerys compliments, perhaps a little shy, and Sansa feels her cheeks fill.

“How do you know that melody?”

“Wonderful deflection, Lady Stark,” She licks over full lips, the skin at the corners of her eyes creased. Sansa decides she loves the blemish, if it were considered as such. “Ser Jorah taught me back when my children were no bigger than my hand. It’s the only one I have not forgotten. I suppose it stuck.”

Sansa hums, “I thought we were forgetting titles?”

Daenerys bites down on a smile, eyelashes fluttering as she tilts her head to the side. She looks back to Sansa and the chuckle dies on her lips. Sansa, fixated on the motion, of the closeness of it all, near misses her light sarcasm.

“My apologies, please do forgive me, m’lady.”

Sansa can’t help her laugh, tucking back a stray strand that escaped the confines of her braid as Daenerys fumbles with her - Sansa’s - furs. She should feel intimidated, yes, though she feels nothing of the sort. Only warmth.

“Oh, you are forgiven.”

Daenerys’ answering smile is soft as she reaches out to correct the strand herself, her hand brushing Sansa’s cheek. She feels her eyes slip shut for a moment, and when they open, Daenerys’ are wide with her hand hovering.

“Sansa,” She breathes, raw. It's a question. A plea. And Sansa feels some hesitation no matter how much she wants…Gods, does she want. But that is not how the world works, not for her family and certainly not for her. If she does this, gives it to this gnawing ache, all that will follow is heartbreak.

“I don’t- I barely know you. We can’t.”

“I wish to learn to know you, regardless of what awaits,” Daenerys’ gaze is intense. Sansa doesn’t look away. “Is this a no? I won’t do a thing you don’t wish for.”

Sansa inhales, shaky, and licks over her lips. She is nothing like her ancestors. “It’s definitely not.”

Daenerys settles a hand to cup her cheek, smiling softly. “Good.”

Her eyes flick up to Sansa’s before she presses her lips to hers. Heat flickers inside her, and she kisses back with vigour. She doesn't know what she's doing, and she’s certain that it must show, but Daenerys doesn’t show any bother. She can’t explain what it is she yearns for, she just wants it again, wants Daenerys, and presses closer.

It hits her when Daenerys thumbs her jaw; this is her first kiss of her own choice. With someone she knows would not cause her harm. The thought brings a moan forth from her lips.

Then there’s a hand curled in her hair, soft and gentle and cruel all the same. They’re the hands of a killer, a protector, a conquerer... the queen she chose.

They let her braids loose and tangle in the waves as Daenerys swallows her every gasp. The kiss is slow, so gentle, but it is clear who is leading it. She didn’t know anything could make her feel like this, nerves on edge and mind full of air. She understands now; why lesser men go to war for this.

Sansa breaks away to breathe when she must. She can’t help but laugh against the corner of Daenerys’ mouth, those full lips curved up against her own. “This complicates things greatly.”

“Mmm, it does. However..” Daenerys’ laugh is light, darkened eyes tracking Sansa’s mouth. “I can’t bring myself to care.”

Sansa grins, a little breathless. “Me neither.”

The game can wait for now, for today. She can just be, she has earned that much.

Daenerys reclaims her mouth again and Sansa opens up for the queen without question, allowing her to venture inside and thaw her out. The chill of the air is long forgotten as she lets herself be guided. She curls her fingers in Daenerys’ dress for support, the cloth soft to the touch.

The hands still buried in her hair pull her closer, altering the angle of their kiss and making it that much better.

Both are panting when they break apart, stealing several small kisses in haste as they regain themselves. Sansa presses at her mouth with her finger and feels the flesh tingle. Giddiness dances inside her, and she’s never felt so full of it.

“That awful?” Daenerys teases, chin tilted upward and eyes narrowed. A mockery of her regal stature when eyes are on her.

Sansa thwats at her knee, covered by her furs, “Quite the opposite, your Grace.”

Daenerys pouts at the title, amethysts sparkling. She kisses Sansa’s cheek, tenderly so.

Sansa turns her head into it and chases her lips without thought. Daenerys giggles, surprised but goes pliant.

She twirls a silver curl in her finger when they break away again, unable to keep from grinning at each other as young lovers must.

“I wanted so desperately to despise you.”

Daenerys takes her hand to squeeze it, to run her thumb along scarred knuckles. “I’m glad you gave me a chance.”

“I am too,” Sansa smiles, meaning it.

They sit quietly for some time, petting the beasts and stealing glances at each other. Daenerys shows her how to command them, and they practice High Valyrian together. She realises sometime during that she can’t remember the last time she felt this way. Light and content, no matter how much the air of the wars sat atop her shoulders.

Sansa runs a hand atop Rhaegal’s snout. “He’s named after your brother, isn’t he?”

She thinks she’s overstepped when Daenerys stills. She nods, a smile beginning to grow when he noses at Sansa’s hand.

“Yes, as was Viserion. Drogon is-” She pauses, a sour expression taking hold before it passes. “He is not.”

Sansa clears her throat. “I’ve heard stories.”

Daenerys’ lips press together, her gaze on how Drogon’s wing flutters. “Of course.”

“I suppose he’s told you much about me under the same circumstances.”

Daenerys nods, her expression turned soft, but not condescending. Daenerys knows what it is to be manipulated, used, and somehow come out on top. She supposes this is why talking to her so open like so comes with ease.

“I’m sure I would’ve loved Lady, given the chance. And you, Viserion,” She smiles, “When my children were young, he was the one who wanted my attention most. He would… would nuzzle my face and curl up beside me more often than his brothers. He was too big for it, yet I would allow him.”

Sansa lay her head on her shoulder. “Lady liked to lay with me as I sow, rambling about princes and knights and all those fairytales I so desperately believed to be true. She’d sit so patiently and watch me work. She was my only true friend, I think.”

“I’m sorry for all the wrongs that have befallen you, Sansa,” She speaks soft, but firm, cupping Sansa’s cheek. “You’re perhaps the strongest person I’ve met. You astonish me.”

She’s surprised by the tears that blemish her cheeks but welcomes them. They’re from a place of vulnerability, the kind she hasn’t been able to express freely for years. And she’s glad for them, to talk of Lady with one of the few people who truly understands.

“I’m sorry for what happened to Viserion,” She makes sure to look up into Daenerys’ eyes when she says it, meaning every word she speaks. “I know he must have been important to you, to your other children.”

Daenerys is quiet for a time, playing with her ring again.

“It’s done now. I can’t bring him back but I can avenge him and I will.”

“We will, together,” Sansa promises as she closes her eyes, picturing spring and all that will come with it. “No matter how much what awaits terrifies me. And then we will bury him, I promise you that.”

Daenerys lay her head atop hers, the weight comforting. “We mustn’t give in to fear but utilise it, unleash everything we have upon this Night King. That is why I’m here. The North will receive my full assistance in containing him and we will deal with the Lannisters after.”

Sansa’s heart leapt, and she wondered at that moment just how much the Gods were laughing down at her. A Stark falling for a Targaryen usurper. How fate humoured her so.  
  
“I hope to be there when her head is torn from her shoulders.”

Daenerys doesn’t speak for a moment, and her voice drops to something primal. “I will rip her out, root and stem and steel if it comes to it. I’m a woman of my word.”

Sansa breathes in the cool air, curling herself into Daenerys further. “I believe it.”

“I’m thankful, your faith is important to me.” She pulls her furs further around herself. “Perhaps we should make our way back inside.”

Sansa lifts her head, an easy smile tugging into a grin. “My, are you cold, your grace?”

Daenerys snorts, crossing her arms in a childish manner. Her voice is teasing. “Dragons feel nothing but warmth.”

“How foolish of me.” She gestures to Daenerys’ reddened cheeks, her shivers now that her children don’t curl around her. “I suppose you shiver from excitement at my earlier mention of sewing?”

Daenerys’ burst of laughter is infectious and she can’t help but giggle herself, high and open. “Now, I would actually like to join you sometime.”

“If you’d like that.”

Daenerys levels her with a look. “I wouldn’t have suggested otherwise. Besides, I believe I’m in need of furs that fit me if I am to get through Winter. And armour.”

Her lips quirk and Sansa wants to taste them again.

So she does.

And when they get up to make their way back to Winterfell, Daenerys takes her hand in hers and says nothing.

* * *

Daenerys meets her at her chambers and accompanies her to eat the next day after the meeting, her hair once again made up of intricate braids at Missandei’s hands. They dine like old friends at the front of the Hall, and Arya joins them for once. She’s a chair closer than Jon who sits on the end of the table, preoccupied with Tormund and his drunken ramblings.

They speak of many things, war the forefront of course, with Northern wine to aid the conversation. Arya fidgets, playing with a piece of dragonglass on a chain, and her dagger unpresent at her hip for once. Sansa looks to Gendry sat a couple of tables over, red high on his cheeks when he spots her looking. It doesn’t take a genius to piece those things together.

She can’t ignore the eeriness of it all, though; how the Hall is lit up as a storm wails on the outside. She hears it, even above the laughter and rowdiness of hundreds piled into one room. The snows are stronger than any she remembers as a child, and it's a stark enough reminder of what’s to come that it chills her to her core.

Something about it is unnatural, reminiscent of Old Nan’s fables that she and Bran would beg to hear when sleep would not come.

She spots Tormund at the doors to the hall on what must be her fifth surveillance of the room, who swiftly dips out of the room.

That perks her interest.

Arya takes notice instantly, because of course, and nudges her ankle a little harder than needed. “Jon’s disappeared, too. Not that either of you noticed. But his guards are still here.”

Sansa ignores how her cheeks run hot. She’d been paying little attention to anything that wasn’t, well, Daenerys. She ensures that she keeps her face stoic so as not to cause suspicion though her eyes dance across the crowd all the same. Not a single sign of her brother.

Daenerys speaks, goblet settled at her chin. Her hands barely grasp it and Sansa’s lips twitch. “Which means?”

Arya stabs into the pot of stew in front of her, pulling out a strip of chicken. “Well. He wouldn’t disappear without telling you unless it was some emergency. Or something you wouldn’t approve of.”

The winds howl on in their silence, and she thinks of the little Umber boy whose fate Beric told them of earlier in the day. Just an innocent child. War is cruel and spares no one. Especially when the enemy does not tire, does not feel.

But she would not let fear rule her, as Daenerys had said. She couldn’t afford to. Fear led to stupid decisions and that led to an arrow in the chest or your head on a pole. She knew they must avenge him and every life lost to the storm and let herself mourn after.

Tonight was for something different, a rare chance for those in the grounds to spend time together before they inevitable came for them. Perhaps Jon had chosen to do so.

She watches as Daenerys mindlessly licks over her lips as she talks to Arya, her leg pressed to Sansa’s. Sansa knows this isn’t the right time, hardly appropriate given where she sits, but she wants to capture those lips in her own and let everyone hear how she keens. She wants-

She presses her hands together in her lap and focuses on how Grey Worm and Brienne are seemingly discussing fruits.

“What do you think we should do?”

Arya, with a subtle tilt of her head at her sister, simply hums. “Nothing, I don’t think anybody seems concerned,” She nods to the rowdy crowd, most with ale in their hands. “Besides, I don’t exactly think he’s in danger.”

Sansa’s brows twist together. “Why do you say that?”

Arya snorts. “As smart as you are, you can be incredibly dense. It’s what could be one of his last nights in the world and he’s chosen to go off with his Wildling friend who just spent ten minutes talking about him like some god. Why is that, do you think?”

Daenerys hides her laugh behind her hand in response despite how her eyes, full of mirth, betray her. It transpires into giggles and Sansa feels a smile of her own tug at her lips.

“Perfectly reasonable,” She smirks and Sansa reddens at the look sent her way.

“Well, I’m going to find someone else to get drunk with,” Arya’s eyes shine. “Neither of you are as subtle as you think you are, whatever you’re up to.”

Daenerys’ lips quirk as she bows her head. “Lady Stark.”

Arya nods her goodbyes, gives one last look to Sansa and makes her way to Sandor.

“Your sister is formidable,” Daenerys’ smirk is teasing. “I like her.”

“Nobody knows that more than me,” She smiles. “I still can’t believe she’s here with me most days, no matter how insufferable she is.” A quiet kind of chuckle leaves her mouth, “I prayed every night to never forget her face. I’m stronger with my siblings by my side.”

Daenerys slips her hand onto her knee beneath the table and Sansa grips it. “I’m glad for it.”

Continuing, Daenerys speaks lower. Gentler. Only meant for her. “Your family is the first I’ve seen behave as such. Everyone by my side now is the closest to family I have, I suppose. My only blood would be happy to see me break if it meant he got the throne. His death brought me comfort.”

Sansa’s eyes stung. She wonders how Baelish would treat Daenerys. How he would have torn them apart and pitted them against each other. She wonders how long it would’ve taken for Daenerys to see through it, to have had his throat slit and his corpse scorched.

Not very long at all, she supposed.

“I know something of that. I’m sure you’ve heard.”

“Yes,” Daenerys squeezes her knee. “One day, I think I’d like to hear how you destroyed those who have brought harm upon you. But only when you’re ready.”

Sansa thinks she’s the luckiest woman in Westeros, to have such a woman so interested in her. She wonders if she deserves such a dear thing.

Or when it will fall apart. As all things do for her.

“Of course,” Sansa grips Daenerys’ hand and pushes it further up her thigh, her worries about formality quickly leaving her mind. She supposed this was what advisors forebode against. It was a distraction she wanted to experience more of. “I’d love nothing less, your Grace.”

Daenerys bites down to hide her smile though her eyes shine as they search Sansa’s. And that’s enough to get her pulse racing.

Sansa watches as she runs a finger along the thinly-clothed skin and she images the feel of it on bare skin. She looks up, taking note of the number of people packed into the and welcomes the thrill of her doing so in front of so many people.

Daenerys’ eyes drop to her lap too, her veiled intrigue bleeding into her features. She dips her head, leans in to whisper.

“What are we doing?”

Sansa’s eyes drop to Daenerys’ mouth.

“Please don’t toy with me, not here.”

Sansa flushes, and it's her turn to bite down on a grin. She deserves this, Sansa tells herself, to feel this thrill. To welcome how easy this feels; like she was to always be tamed by the dragon. Or to bite back.

She tilts her head, barely an inch from Daenerys’ face, mastering the most passive smile she could. “I don’t want to spend what could be my last night in regret.”

She feels fire pool in her belly as Daenerys drills her fingers into the oak in front of her, pretty eyes dark. They flick to her advisors who care little.

Her lips quirk, “It appears I’m done with my food. Would you like to accompany me to my quarters, Lady Sansa? I’m afraid I can get quite lost in all of these halls still.”

“Of course,” Sansa nods, pushing herself from the table. “Such a bother, your grace.”

She catches Ser Davos’ eye as they leave, Daenerys’ arm around her waist, and he raises a goblet with what she believes is his approval. She appreciates it but it's not like it matters. She is the Lady of Winterfell and she may do as she pleases.

Daenerys takes her hand when they’re out of the Hall, pulling her in the direction of her room.

“Sorry,” She huffs out a laugh, eyes bright. “I couldn’t think of a better excuse.”

They dance together like children as they walk, full of glee, hands joined and heads thrown back. Sansa almost trips in their haste but Daenerys is there to catch her, laughing herself.

“Careful,” She giggles, hand at her waist. “What would your Northern lords say if they knew you were lured away by the dragon queen to her lair?”

Sansa thumbs Daenerys’ cheek, pursing her lips. “They may say what pleases them. And then they may go fuck themselves.”

Daenerys’ lips widen in surprise until she’s laughing openly and Sansa’s probably a little too gone on her already.

“You make me so..” Daenerys pauses, looking up at Sansa with a smile so wide, so earnest, that she almost has to look away. “I’ve never experienced this. Truly, I didn’t think I could.”

“Me neither.”

Sansa pulls her closer, an arm around her waist. She giving little care to the fact they’re out in the open where anyone can stumble upon them and captures her lips. Daenerys gives a noise of surprise but kisses back without a thought, grasping at Sansa’s shoulder.

Daenerys steps back and takes Sansa with her. She goes without thought. Daenerys pushes her back until she can feel warm stone at her back and a tongue at her lips. Her skin tingles with every second they share as she kisses back with enthusiasm, licking into Daenerys’ mouth as her heart sings. There are hands in her hair again, blunt nails at her scalp, and she gasps out a moan that Daenerys swallows.

They kiss for a good while until Daenerys seems to remember where they are, pulling back with a sharp inhale and her lips lingering. She falls from her tiptoes and suddenly Sansa is reminded of just how small Daenerys is. Small, but has such an air of regality about her that it commands respect and makes her forget the difference in their height. Still, her head swims as she watches her flush.

“Sorry,” She chuckles, not sorry at all if her grin is anything to go by, correcting Sansa’s dress.

“Well,” Sansa shakes her head, shy in spite of what just happened. “We were heading back to your quarters, were we not?”

“Indeed we were, Lady Stark,” Daenerys tilts her head, teasing, and holds out her arm. “Come.”

Sansa grips Daenerys’ arm with perhaps too much vigour, thrumming with excitement at what awaits.

A Dothraki soldier stationed at her door nods at them when they arrive, conversing in his mother tongue with Daenerys. His gaze skims to Sansa and he says something that makes Daenerys’ cheeks tinge pink.

He bows his head to both of them as he leaves with a smile on his face. “Qoy qoyi.”

Blood of my blood, she recognises that, at least, after weeks engaging with them in Winterfell. Not that it matters right now, she can barely think of anything that isn’t the woman in front of her.

Daenerys holds the door open for her and she uses the time to take note of the room’s layout. It’s not unlike the rest of the guest quarters of Winterfell, a featherbed full of furs, an open fire, a table and wardrobes. Though there are many more candles than her own room, she is sure of that, and some gentle perfume marks the air. Something Meereenese, she figures.

The candles and fire are newly set, however, which is a relief to her cold skin layered in goosebumps.

“I have them changed every couple of hours, I like the heat.”

She hears the door shut, hears Daenerys make her way inside but refuses to look her way. There’s something immensely thrilling about it, deciding what she wants to happen here and knowing that Daenerys wants her too.

It’s silent but for footsteps edging closer, the crackling of flames and her own heavy breathing. It makes her shiver, certainly not from the cold. There is none. Only warmth that she wishes to envelop her.

Then there’s a chest at her back and lips pressed to her skin. They travel lazily along her shoulder until the point it meets her neck like they have all the time in the world. Sansa dips her head forward to allow her access, the action dizzying. She would allow her anything she wanted right now. The feeling overwhelms her, something addictive and consuming.

“You’re sure that this is what you desire?” Daenerys’ voice is low and muffled and going straight to Sansa’s groin, her teeth scraping her neck.

Sansa doesn’t need to think for a second about it, not when Daenerys’ hands snake up her dress, not when they begin to unthread the laces keeping it in place and her tongue licks over marks she’s made. She’s never been so certain of anything.

“Of course,” She gasps, leaning into the body against her back and her mind floating.

“I couldn’t stop watching you all night,” Daenerys says, low and tranquil, her touch searing on the bare skin between Sansa’s shoulder blades. She pushes back into her touch, shivers as nimble fingers make quick work of her dress.

“No?” She gasps, Daenerys pushing aside the top of her smallclothes to press her lips to the back of her neck, hot and slow.

“I kept thinking about how best to get you out of this dress, if I could tear it from your body,” Daenerys is undoing her smallclothes now, Sansa works out, her lips following her fingers down her shoulder blades. “If you would have allowed me.”

“I would. I wanted you to,” Sansa tilts her head back as Daenerys meets her eyes, dark and intense, and captures her lips. The angle is a little awkward, though Sansa cannot bring herself to care when Daenerys’ tongue presses into her mouth.

“Good,” Daenerys pulls back, steps out of Sansa’s space. She makes her way over to the table across the room, pushing her messy hair out of the way to unlace her dress.

“What are you doing?” She surprises herself by how broken she sounds, itching to follow her.

Daenerys steps out of her dress with ease and moves to pour into her goblet. She smirks around the rim after taking a sip, openly ogling Sansa’s frame. It would make her feel small if not for the fact that Daenerys is entirely naked. She hadn’t been wearing any smallclothes at all.

The sight rips Sansa’s breath from her lungs.

Hip cocked on the table, Daenerys smiles, “I grew thirsty.”

Sansa feels a great thrill of want, heat coiling deep in her belly, and makes her way to her queen.

Daenerys’ eyes are dark though her lips quirk in a gentle smirk and she understands now. Why men go to war for this, why they die for this. Sansa steels her face, lifts a brow as she takes hold of the goblet and downs the contents. The wine is bitter though she forces it down and wipes at her mouth after. Daenerys continues to gape, pleasing Sansa immensely as she leans down to lick into her open mouth.

Daenerys inhales deep through her nose, immediately coming to grip Sansa’s waist and pull her closer. She tugs at the straps to her dress with haste, pushing the tight garment down and wrapped her legs around her waist.

“Off,” She murmurs against Sansa’s mouth, little pants escaping. “Now.”

“Okay,” Sansa rasps with a bite of her lip; her dragon’s temper unsurprisingly affects her, causes a shudder to ripple through her being. She steps back from the smaller woman to step out of her smallclothes that joins her dress below them.

She’s aware that her scars must be on display now but she doesn’t feel fear. Only impatience, desire for Daenerys to touch her. She won’t hurt her, won’t mock her.

Daenerys smiles, something incredibly gentle and private that should not make her blood run hot as she thumbs Sansa’s wrist. And yet.

“I can’t believe-” She cuts herself off, tone soft and quieter.

Sansa brushes silver hair from Daenerys’ face, tucking it away. “What is it?”

Daenerys shakes her head, lips curled in a way that displeases Sansa. “Truly, I don’t understand why you would want me, any of me. What my father did to your family... I just. It doesn’t seem true. And I don’t want to hurt you.”

Sansa feels her heart and leans down to kiss her cheek and her way down Daenerys’ neck, mimicking her earlier movement. She has no idea what she’s doing but she must be doing it correctly because Daenerys lets out a gasp, eyes falling shut.

“You’re not your father,” She whispers simply and knows with every part of her that it rings true. “You’ve been nothing but kind and true to my people, to me, since the moment you arrived. You share nothing with him but a name.”

“Sansa,” She trembles, pulling her down to meet their lips and mingling her tears within. Sansa cares little, cupping her jaw and kissing her deep.

Daenerys kisses back in earnest and it's different now, somehow. It means more to her, to Daenerys too, she’s certain. They’re not just finding pleasure in one another but security too. Trust. Something she never thought to experience again. The intimacy makes her run hotter than before and her hips press forward and Daenerys into the table.

Daenerys hops up unto the surface, and Sansa steps between her legs without hesitation, skin thrumming. She snakes a hand up Daenerys’ torso as she makes sweet, little gasps against the corner of Sansa’s mouth.

Curious, she cups her breast and thumbs over her nipple. The response is imminent; fingers clenched in her hair, a high whine leaving full lips. She’s thankful that the feast is taking place because there’s no way she wouldn’t have been heard rooms over. Though, she can’t deny the throb between her legs at the thought of people knowing she is the reason the Targaryen is in such a state.

She can’t resist but to run a digit over the sensitive nub again and Daenerys keens, her hips jolting up against Sansa’s thigh.

“Gods,” Sansa breathes out a moan of her own at the sight and does it again.

Daenerys, who until this point has seemingly been happy to be toyed with, pulls Sansa’s hand away.

“Stop,” Daenerys is breathless, her grip on Sansa’s wrist light.

Sansa’s stomach drops and she pulls back, feeling a flush creep up her body. What had she done wrong? She thought Daenerys to be enjoying it. Maybe she had realised what a waste of time bedding Sansa would be after all.

“Did I do something wrong?” She blurts, cheeks pink. “I’m not good at- I’ve never, only with-”

“Hey,” Daenerys presses her lips to Sansa’s cheek and links their fingers. “Nothing is wrong, you’re wonderful. just. The bed, perhaps, would be a better place to continue this.”

“Oh,” Sansa feels shame, chuckles a little at her own foolishness.

Daenerys thumbs her lip, a smile dancing on her own. “I assure you; I want nothing more than to have my way with you. I just want you to be comfortable when I do,” She smirks then, “And to not have to kneel on a cold floor.”

“Oh,” Sansa repeats, sucking her bottom lip into her mouth. Daenerys’ eyes drop to follow the motion and she can’t help but whimper at the attention.

“Bed,” A statement, not a question. Daenerys’ voice is low, her teeth scraping Sansa’s lobe.

She shudders, the sensation is unbearable and delicious all the same. Is this what it could be like? Daenerys makes her float, makes her feel alive. She wishes to experience nothing less than this again.

There’s a light giggle against her jaw as Daenerys walks her backward, more intent on sucking a mark into Sansa’s flesh than anything else. Still, somehow, they make it onto the furs without tripping.

Daenerys lays above her, elbow on the bed, and immediately moves to kiss her lazily, open-mouthed. It leaves Sansa’s every nerve end vibrating. She bucks up, impatient as Daenerys’ hand trails up her thigh.

Daenerys thumbs her lip when she pulls away, her other hand still on her inner thigh. Just low enough for Sansa to get no relief even if she tried.

Her eyes are wild, lips swollen and hair stuck to her face. She pulls Sansa’ breath from her lips when she smiles, somewhat uncertain. “You’re certain you want to be with me? Even when it could be your very last night?”

Sansa inhales deep, sucking the digit into her mouth and watches Daenerys’ eyes darken. It’s her turn to grin, breathless and as she may be when Daenerys takes her hand back. “I’ve never been surer of anything, now fuck me. Please.”

Daenerys laughs, brisk and deeper than her voice just a moment before, not a hint of her previous vulnerability. Surely she must know, now, that Sansa is truly hers.

“Alright,” She smiles, and finally, presses a finger inside.

Sansa’s lashes flutter as a moan is ripped from within her and she clenches her fingers on nothing, falling back into the furs beneath her.

She feels eyes on her as she begins to writhe when the digit teases something inside, her back arching. She wants to look away, feeling her skin flush deep but keeps eye contact.

Daenerys’ gaze is intense, her digit curling inside with every slow thrust and making her pant. She’s not sure if she wants to meet her or squirm away, the feeling so great and yet so foreign. Daenerys quirks it at some angle and has Sansa gasping, pushing down onto it for more. She repeats the action and Sansa is pulling her down into a kiss more messy than functional as she pants, toes curling and fingers clenching a little harshly in Daenerys’ hair at the nape of her neck.

“I had no idea this could feel so-” She breaks off into another whine as a second digit joins the first. “Dany.”

Ashen hair falls around her face as Daenerys pulls back enough to stroke her cheek, clammy in the heat and the practice.

“That’s it,” Daenerys’ voice is high and quiet, as though she is equally as affected. Somehow, this heightens the intensity for Sansa and she grinds down onto her fingers with more vigour, keeping Daenerys’ gaze. “You’re so beautiful.”

“I want,” Sansa is panting like a hound, brows knit. “I don’t want this to be a one-time thing.”

Daenerys pauses at the admission, her eyes flitting to Sansa’s, slow smile growing on her face. She continues in slow drags, brushing the spot inside her every time that makes her thrash. Her heat presses down onto Sansa’s thigh, hot and incredible like the digits curled inside her.

Daenerys’ hand is on her hip now, for leverage. Her nails dig into the flesh and it makes Sansa mewl in the little space between their faces. “Me neither.”

“In fact,” She continues, bringing a third to meet the other two inside her. The pressure is immense and beautiful and dizzying and- “After we defeat the Night King, once I have ripped the lioness' head from her shoulders, I want to taste you. I want to fucking break you. Would you like that?”

Sansa stutters at this, eyes rolling back as the pressure continues to build. Like an itch she can barely scratch, it's intoxicating and all that consumes her mind.

As swift as she can, she manoeuvres her way up and into Daenerys’ lap, altering the digits inside her and it causing a wail she would deny later on.

Daenerys curses as she struggles to sit up, placing her other hand on the small of Sansa’s back. She’s thrusting up with increasingly desperate motions of her own into Sansa’s thigh, her forehead against Sansa’s chest as she huffs out moans with her nails dug into Sansa’s flesh.

“I want to take you apart,” She grunts, kissing, licking and sucking over her breasts as they move together. Sansa’s thighs tightened as she bucks down onto Daenerys’ fingers, letting her head fall back and eyes fall shut as she embraces it. “Just my tongue, my mouth. Again and again, until you’re sobbing. Would you like that?”

“I want nothing but this,” Sansa shivers, pushing away silver hair from Daenerys’ face and clamps her hand in it to steady herself. She shocks herself by how deeply desperate she has become. “I never want to leave this bed. Only you, I want you inside me, on me, only this. Please, Dany. Just you.”

Daenerys surges up to meet their lips and lick into her mouth, the action so dirty that it made her moan louder. She felt so high-strung, so full, that she felt she were about to burst.

“I want to have you on my throne when I take it,” Daenerys bites Sana’s bottom lip, fucking her quick and deep with her fingers as her lips pull back into a smirk. “I want to ruin you. Let them all hear as you howl the dragon queen’s name until you can no longer.”

Hips trembling, she comes apart with a gasp of Daenerys’ name on her lips.

Her release hits her hard and fast. Vaguely, she recognises Daenerys’ encouragement in her ear, the way she cries when Sansa’s hand tightens in her hair but it feels far away. She feels nothing but rich pleasure. It overwhelms her and she welcomes it, her mouth wide in a silent scream as her body unwinds like a bowstring.

Daenerys follows after, biting down onto Sansa’s shoulder with a drawn-out groan.

Sansa circles her hips as the aftershocks course through her as Daenerys thrusts up against her thigh to draw out the last tinges she can, letting out little gasps.

When Daenerys falls back against the furs, Sansa goes with her, boneless and clinging to her warmth. Daenerys kisses her lazily, cupping her jaw. When she breaks away it's to smile against Sansa’s mouth, stroking through her damp hair.

“You called me Dany,” She grins, breathless as she plays with a strand beginning to curl with perspiration. She’s looking up at Sansa with bright eyes, half-lidded and searching for something.

“I did,” Sansa smiles, face hot at the attention in spite of everything that had just happened. “Do you mind?”

Daenerys’ lips widen, her eyes shining. “Not at all.”

Sansa pulls the furs over them, catching her breath as they lay together when Daenerys’ finger travels her throat.

“I hope you have scarves hidden away,” She presses down onto what must be a bruise she curated and Sansa squirms, trying her hardest to ignore the dull throb between her legs. “Sorry.”

“I forgive you,” Sansa kisses the tip of her nose and watches Daenerys press her lips together, a move she knows is born out of shyness. “I’ve never felt so incredible before. Thank you.”

“That makes me happy,” Daenerys kisses the corner of her mouth, her own red and full. She speaks again, quiet and soft, and Sansa isn’t certain she’s supposed to hear. “In truth, I didn’t know sex could feel so intimate. I just… I don’t know, I’ve always thought it a necessary tool. A way to relieve tension, maybe, at times. That was different.”

Sansa hums, breathing in whatever Essos soaps that make Daenerys so sweet. Like honey. She’s content and a little overwhelmed with the queen’s hand at her shoulder, blunt nails scraping enough that it's some kind of sharp relief.

“It was,” She agrees, letting her eyes slip shut.

They settle into the furs, sweat and stickiness between their thighs disregarded, curled into each other. Sansa lay her head upon Daenerys’ chest, her arm thrown over her stomach. She feels like she is floating, somewhere between this bed and the heavens, Daenerys’ skin hot on her own that shines with perspiration.

Her ear is to Daenerys’ heart, the beat strong and intense beneath its confines. This is what I do to her, she thinks incredulously, and her own skips a beat.

“I don’t want this to be a one-time thing if we survive,” Daenerys presses to the crown of her head.

Sansa tilts her head up, chin on Daenerys’ collarbone, and presses her mouth to Daenerys’ jaw. Daenerys’ eyes flutter, teeth peeking out in a grin she seems out of practice expressing. The thought brings Sansa great sadness, and she pulls herself up to tangle a hand in her hair and to join their mouths again.

“I don’t either,” She whispers against the corner of her mouth, pulling back enough to meet Daenerys’ eyes. She deserves to hear this. “I quite enjoy your company, I want to know you in every way possible. And honestly? I’d quite like to see the South again, see the country without a tyrant in charge.”

Something dances across Daenerys’ face as she gapes openly, swallowing thickly. Her smile is gentle, unsure. Her gaze is central to Sansa and her only, burning like the blood that runs inside her. “Yeah?”

Sansa nods, laugh a little wet, and her chest grows with joy, “Yes.”

Daenerys inhales and her arms encase her instantly, her tongue slipping past swollen lips and Sansa is so willing. A future of this hadn’t struck her until now. A fair ruler, a kind lover and a saviour, Gods forbid they survive. The thought gave her hope and made that vision of Spring that much sweeter.

Her Queen’s legs wrap around her waist, pulling her close and who is Sansa to oppose?

“How do people ever do anything but fuck? But lay together like this?” She voices, grinning at Daenerys’ sharp snort. It turns into full laughter and she makes to hide her grin behind her hand.

“One of life’s many mysteries.” She grins, carding her hands through Sansa’s hair. Nails scrape her scalp and her eyes flutter shut, her body lax with pleasure.

Then Daenerys’ mouth is on her throat, over a mark she left before and Sansa sighs, tightening her hold on her shoulder. She tilts her head and traces a lazy hand down to deal with the growing throbbing between her legs.

She doesn’t get far before Daenerys catches her wrist, brows furrowed. “What do you need?”

“You,” Sansa answers, her breathing heady. Then, she frowns. “Is this- is that okay? Did I do something wrong?”

“You were wonderful,” Daenerys’ brows furrow and she sits up, runs her thumb over Sansa’s lip and smiles. “Lay back for me?”

Sansa nods, settling back instantly and parting her legs. She feels a thrill when Daenerys’ mouth falls open, though she quickly regains her composure.

She smiles something dangerous, all teeth, and makes her way down her body.

* * *

The bells ring before the sun rises.

They dress quickly with shaking fingers and clammy palms, no time for words.

Jon finds them, Longclaw in hand and his face set in determination. Sansa can still read the terror in him that has his chest heaving, just as her own does and Daenerys’, no matter how she tries to disguise it. He pushes a blade into Sansa’s palm and her toward the crypts. She grips the weapon, unfamiliar but necessary, and Daenerys casts a side glance to Jon before they both pull Sansa into a hug.

No words are spoken, they understand what must be done and what is at stake. They part and Sansa watches them go, hears the trebuchets begin to fire and Dothraki and Northmen cry as one. Her skin chills as winter overcomes Winterfell and she gives one last look to Daenerys’ retreating figure as Arya begins to usher her up to the broken tower.

The Dragon is fearless, she thinks, but what is she when faced with death?

The answer is, as she watches Daenerys bring a flaming sword to the throat of the Night King as her dragons circle above the decay, to fucking give him fire and blood.

King’s Landing, without the press of the wheel, is not that bad.

Sansa watches a boat sail into the harbour, perched at the window. The Greyjoy sigil, she realises when it comes into clearer view. Good, it would be wonderful to see Yara and Theon again.

Both are still healing from the fight for the city, Euron had not gone down easy. Not until Yara had put an axe in his gut and Theon an arrow in his skull, that is.

The harbour and the streets below are crowded with people excited to reign in their new Queen. It scares Sansa as much as it thrills her.

It had been a long fight, ending the Dead and taking King’s Landing after. Of course, Dany had the Northmen rally behind her and join her ranks, her two children and each of her allies. It was almost too easy, Brienne had told, witnessing first hand when Daenerys claimed her throne while Sansa was caring for those too sick to follow.

Dany had unmounted Drogon after melting the throne to molten, dragging Lightbringer with her. Cersei fought until the end, both full of nothing but desire to see the other die. And so Dany had her on her knees, sword at the base of her skull, and allowed Jaime to do what she knew he must.

Then Jaime pledged himself to her and the North alike.

Or so, that’s how it was told in the small practice of whispers.

Sansa had arrived when Dany was already mid-speech, her hair made of ash and eyes of fire. Her men were cheering, her children perched beside her almost appearing to sneer as Cersei lay at her feet.

The people had looked on in awe, as Sansa had that day in the courtyard, and she felt her breath leave her as they welcomed Dany into the crowd with arms open.

“There you are,” She turns to the teasing call, pulling her from her memories.

Dany’s coronation dress is made of a deep red, flowing and the sleeves long. The crown is simple enough, a twist of gold made to resemble sharp scales. One, sole red ruby sits at the front.

“You look…”

“I know,” Daenerys grins, linking her arms around Sansa’s waist and presses her lips to her cheek. “You look lovely, too.”

“Victory suits you, Bringer of Dawn,” Sansa smiles, thumbing Daenerys’ jaw.

The woman flushes, pressing her lips together. “Yes, well, I wanted to see you before everything truly began. Tyrion’s been helping aid my nerves.”

Tyrion, who Sansa admittedly hadn’t acknowledged entering, lifts his head. Sansa levels him with a look. “How much have you drank?”

Tyrion’s jaw drops although the draw of his mouth betrays him. “Only a glass. Each. Besides-”

“Why didn’t you come to find me?” Sansa pouts, stroking her shoulder.

Dany’s smile is teasing, contradicting how delicately she spoke. “Well, actually, we were having a little something adjusted for you, too.”

“Ah, yes,” Tyrion comes forward, a genuine smile lighting his face in a way Sansa has never seen. He hands her the metal pin and she can’t help but stare. “I believe this belongs to you.”

She’d known Dany had wanted this, they’d discussed it many times before and after dawn was brought, but to have it on her person is… jarring. She turns it in her palm, thumbs the ring at the top. Encrusted with two, black gemstones.

“Can you..” She gestures for Dany who nods, hooks it to Sansa’s dress with trembling fingertips. Sansa takes her hand when it is secured, thumbing her purpled knuckles and the healing scars across them.

Dany’s lip wobbles before they part, a little chuff of laughter escaping. Sansa captures them fast, can’t hold herself back.

“I rather think it suits you better than it ever did me, Lady Stark,” Tyrion comments, looking between them. Sansa swears she can see the Master of Coin’s eyes fill.

“Yes,” Dany breathes, amethysts dancing with the kind of intensity that Sansa would once turn her face from. Now? It makes her chest tighten, her thighs quake just a little. She blinks, her gaze unfaltering. “I can’t wait to right the wrongs of those before us. Now that the wheel has been broken, I would really like to rid the world of every, last splinter that remains. My people-”

“Tomorrow,” Sansa chides, tangling her finger in Dany’s loose hair. “They’re here to welcome you, eat your food and drown themselves in wine.”

Dany nods, breathing out a laugh. She turns to watch the harbour below, near empty as the bells ring. The doors are open, it has begun. And yet, she is still thinking of the people on the day they are here to celebrate her and her alone.

 _She is unlike anything I have known_ , Sansa thinks as the Southern sun settles in her core, _and I am better in every way for it._

And when Dany finds her once the moon is high, sliding her mother’s ring onto Sansa’s finger, Spring is born.

**Author's Note:**

> dany deserved better x


End file.
